Monday, October 17, 2016
Friday, May 4, 2012
Paris
Being in Paris makes you do funny things. Like wear horizontal stripes and consume Camembert for breakfast. Like sip wine at noon and fall in love with your apartment's Twinkie-sized kitchen. It may make you recite "Madeline" books verbatim while strolling over the Pont du' Art. It might inspire you to put on a pink trench coat, sit on a bench, and pretend you belong in this mad but glam mix of Lilliputian balconies, punctiliously groomed Parisians (canines and human), hawkers, and boulangeries.
It can also make you a bit nervous. Like lunching in a bistro full of Parisians, unsure of what the menu says because you really thought it was a better idea to take German rather than French in high school, and feeling a bit tuckered out after a day's touring. All I really wanted to do was go to the loo and wash up. I didn't mean to turn off all the lights in the upstairs dining area. Gasp. Silly tourist. Tres embarrassing.
I had been feeling homesick before our trip. Exhausted from the long haul between Christmas and Easter, tired of seeing the ubiquitous peachy-brown hue that is Qatar, weary of the increasingly warm weather that would no doubt soon sequester us indoors. I thought that Paris might cure all that, but instead it made me miss home more.
While settling into our apartment the first night, Nolan declared that he heard the call to prayer outside. My ears perked up and then realized it was the whiny siren of an ambulance. You know the wee-eww, wee-eww song of a French ambulance? Should I get his ears checked?
All I wanted to do in Paris was walk. And walk we did.
Everyday, all day, we walked. It was the most exercise I'd had since our nanny left, leaving me with the mildly calorie burning tasks of laundry and cooking rather than a proper butt and thigh workout in the gym. I actually lost weight while in Paris. Don't worry, though, it's all reappeared. Sigh.
Again, like with Vietnam,it's the small slices of the holiday that I will treasure. Watching Greta absorbed in Van Gogh and Monet. I watched her watch the paintings spring to life before her eyes, the swirls of color and playful paint strokes unlocking a world of art in a nine-year-old's mind. I was 23 before I saw any major pieces of art in person. Two brought me close to tears: Goya's The Third of May in Madrid's Prado and Boticelli's Primavera at the Uffizi in Florence. But the image of my lovely Gbug standing serenely in front of her beloved Van Gogh provoked some teary eyes as well. This was, of course, before a museum docent scolded us for giggling as we perfected our hand clap lyrics (shown above in the video).
We surprised Nolan with a two day trip to Disney Paris. My favorite moment with him was zipping up and down, sideways and screaming, snuggled in the roller coaster cart of Big Thunder Mountain. Scared and brave and screeching with joy. That's my boy.
It can also make you a bit nervous. Like lunching in a bistro full of Parisians, unsure of what the menu says because you really thought it was a better idea to take German rather than French in high school, and feeling a bit tuckered out after a day's touring. All I really wanted to do was go to the loo and wash up. I didn't mean to turn off all the lights in the upstairs dining area. Gasp. Silly tourist. Tres embarrassing.
I had been feeling homesick before our trip. Exhausted from the long haul between Christmas and Easter, tired of seeing the ubiquitous peachy-brown hue that is Qatar, weary of the increasingly warm weather that would no doubt soon sequester us indoors. I thought that Paris might cure all that, but instead it made me miss home more.
While settling into our apartment the first night, Nolan declared that he heard the call to prayer outside. My ears perked up and then realized it was the whiny siren of an ambulance. You know the wee-eww, wee-eww song of a French ambulance? Should I get his ears checked?
All I wanted to do in Paris was walk. And walk we did.
Everyday, all day, we walked. It was the most exercise I'd had since our nanny left, leaving me with the mildly calorie burning tasks of laundry and cooking rather than a proper butt and thigh workout in the gym. I actually lost weight while in Paris. Don't worry, though, it's all reappeared. Sigh.
We surprised Nolan with a two day trip to Disney Paris. My favorite moment with him was zipping up and down, sideways and screaming, snuggled in the roller coaster cart of Big Thunder Mountain. Scared and brave and screeching with joy. That's my boy.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Suitcase Savvy
I was always the girl who forgot to pack something importantly girlie, like post-sun aloe lotion or lipgloss, a mildly slinky beach cover up or extra earrings. Forgetting these tiny luxuries would be entirely unfathomable to many, but for me it was completely beyond my radar. Why would I take $15 lipgloss on holiday when I have my beloved and reliable tube of cherry Chapstick? Isn't a beach cover up basically an expensive towel with shoulder straps? Extra earrings? I'll be lucky if I don't lose the ones I have on now!
Now that I am officially, ahem, a grown up woman (really, I almost wrote the word lady there just so I could avoid calling myself a woman - what's wrong with me?!), I should know how to pack a utilitarian yet feminine suitcase full of holiday necessities. As a mildly-seasoned traveler, I should be able to excise the junk in my suitcase, yet my luggage often reveals a hodgepodge of not entirely coordinating clothing items, assorted reading material (though only some of it will actually be read), and one too many pair of shoes (always). My suitcase is typically on the heavy side even if it's not perfectly packed.
Suitcase, luggage, carry on. More glamorous words for baggage, I suppose. Suitcases I am still working on, but baggage? Baggage I can do: heart baggage, brain baggage, thigh baggage - I have it all! I truck that stuff around every day! It's the sorting (what's worth carrying, what' not?), weeding (could I really just throw that out without regret?), and rehabilitating (that old plum camisole could perk up that tattered vintagey cardigan!) of baggage that I don't quite have the knack for (yet). Which jacket is both fetching and deliciously warm? What can I simply delete from my packing list? Is there some basic necessity that I am forgetting, or a minor girlie accessory that I should reclassify as a staple item? Figuring out what truly belongs in one's suitcase is a skill I assumed would magically come with age. Turns out, it's a fair amount work.
This attempt at metaphor may or may not be working for you, so permit me to reveal my intention: everyone has baggage, and at some point it's probably wise to whittle it down to the baggage you can carry without burden, allotting only the baggage that keeps you honest and sincere, ambitious and hopeful. Anything else has to be checked.
Now that I am officially, ahem, a grown up woman (really, I almost wrote the word lady there just so I could avoid calling myself a woman - what's wrong with me?!), I should know how to pack a utilitarian yet feminine suitcase full of holiday necessities. As a mildly-seasoned traveler, I should be able to excise the junk in my suitcase, yet my luggage often reveals a hodgepodge of not entirely coordinating clothing items, assorted reading material (though only some of it will actually be read), and one too many pair of shoes (always). My suitcase is typically on the heavy side even if it's not perfectly packed.
Suitcase, luggage, carry on. More glamorous words for baggage, I suppose. Suitcases I am still working on, but baggage? Baggage I can do: heart baggage, brain baggage, thigh baggage - I have it all! I truck that stuff around every day! It's the sorting (what's worth carrying, what' not?), weeding (could I really just throw that out without regret?), and rehabilitating (that old plum camisole could perk up that tattered vintagey cardigan!) of baggage that I don't quite have the knack for (yet). Which jacket is both fetching and deliciously warm? What can I simply delete from my packing list? Is there some basic necessity that I am forgetting, or a minor girlie accessory that I should reclassify as a staple item? Figuring out what truly belongs in one's suitcase is a skill I assumed would magically come with age. Turns out, it's a fair amount work.
This attempt at metaphor may or may not be working for you, so permit me to reveal my intention: everyone has baggage, and at some point it's probably wise to whittle it down to the baggage you can carry without burden, allotting only the baggage that keeps you honest and sincere, ambitious and hopeful. Anything else has to be checked.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Roses and Thorns
It's true. We play games at the dinner table. There was one Thanksgiving when we let the kids have a mashed potato fight and sometimes we eat pizza at the coffee table over a game of Wii bowling, but the game we play consistently while suppering is Roses and Thorns. Between bites, each person shares a rose and thorn about the day. A rose can be something kind you did, a moment that made you smile, or anything you are grateful for. A thorn is a disappointment, something that made you frown, or a worry. Nolan loves to explain the rules to dinner guests and Greta likes to make up new rules along the way. I just like hearing about everyone's day.
When Margaret, Chris's youngest sister, lived with us last fall, we assigned days of the week to each person in the family, beginning on Sunday with the oldest (Chris) and ending on Thursday with the youngest (Nolan). Tuesday was Margaret's day. She's been back in the States for months now, but we still pretend that Margaret goes first on Tuesday. "Margaret, where are you? It's your turn," I say. No answer. "Margaret, we're playing Roses and Thorns," Chris says. Nothing. The kids laugh every time.
I've worked hard to be an optimist, so I say my Thorn first and end on a Rose.
Here are my Roses and Thorns for this year abroad:
THORNS
Our stress levels have been higher this year because of our expectations of ourselves have increased
My grade one muscle injury during a softball game (who collapses while running to first base and has to get a piggy-back ride off the field and to her car?)
That I still feel disorganized in our Doha house (desk, toys, wrapping paper drawer, still haven't found proper storage for our towels and magazines, think yellow walls in the dining room was a mistake)
More nights of poor sleep this year than last
Sometimes hard to be away from family and friends
Losing most of my saved documents from last year and starting the year without them
Working full time means less time involved in our kids' day to day schooling even though we now have more time with them overall (summers, weekends, holidays)
ROSES
Greta is much happier this year (making friends, Girl Scouts, more confident). Perhaps the biggest rose of all!
Visitors: Gary, Chris's dad, for a week in September; Margaret for four months; my parents for three weeks
We ventured out more this year than last (and hope to do more next year)
Andorra and Vietnam
Nolan lost a tooth and learned to read and to swim underwater (next: bicycle on two wheels)
Bryan Adams, Pro women's tennis, McEnroe and Borg, seeing Messi score a goal from not so far away, Ahmed Ahmed's comedy show, full moon yoga, days at the Intercontinental Hotel pool
Chris's renewed passion for playing tennis (and he went snowboarding in Andorra, first time in years)
Chris's Habitat for Humanity trip to Romania (planning one for next year in Thailand)
Playing softball for the Sons of Pitches
We still love our jobs and we still feel lucky to be here
Friends here in Doha
Weekends with the kids (unless we have massive amounts of grading, like we do right now)
.
We signed on for another year here, and let go of Chris's leave of absence on the island. At some point, he will need to teach in Washington state again in order to retrieve his pension. It feels too risky to move back to the States without secure jobs lined up for both of us, so, for now, we will continue this little adventure, wading through the thorns and soaking up the roses.
When Margaret, Chris's youngest sister, lived with us last fall, we assigned days of the week to each person in the family, beginning on Sunday with the oldest (Chris) and ending on Thursday with the youngest (Nolan). Tuesday was Margaret's day. She's been back in the States for months now, but we still pretend that Margaret goes first on Tuesday. "Margaret, where are you? It's your turn," I say. No answer. "Margaret, we're playing Roses and Thorns," Chris says. Nothing. The kids laugh every time.
I've worked hard to be an optimist, so I say my Thorn first and end on a Rose.
Here are my Roses and Thorns for this year abroad:
THORNS
Our stress levels have been higher this year because of our expectations of ourselves have increased
My grade one muscle injury during a softball game (who collapses while running to first base and has to get a piggy-back ride off the field and to her car?)
That I still feel disorganized in our Doha house (desk, toys, wrapping paper drawer, still haven't found proper storage for our towels and magazines, think yellow walls in the dining room was a mistake)
More nights of poor sleep this year than last
Sometimes hard to be away from family and friends
Losing most of my saved documents from last year and starting the year without them
Working full time means less time involved in our kids' day to day schooling even though we now have more time with them overall (summers, weekends, holidays)
ROSES
Greta is much happier this year (making friends, Girl Scouts, more confident). Perhaps the biggest rose of all!
Visitors: Gary, Chris's dad, for a week in September; Margaret for four months; my parents for three weeks
We ventured out more this year than last (and hope to do more next year)
Andorra and Vietnam
Nolan lost a tooth and learned to read and to swim underwater (next: bicycle on two wheels)
Bryan Adams, Pro women's tennis, McEnroe and Borg, seeing Messi score a goal from not so far away, Ahmed Ahmed's comedy show, full moon yoga, days at the Intercontinental Hotel pool
Chris's renewed passion for playing tennis (and he went snowboarding in Andorra, first time in years)
Chris's Habitat for Humanity trip to Romania (planning one for next year in Thailand)
Playing softball for the Sons of Pitches
We still love our jobs and we still feel lucky to be here
Friends here in Doha
Weekends with the kids (unless we have massive amounts of grading, like we do right now)
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| Our last day in Vietnam |
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| Margaret joined Chris on the Habitat for Humanity trip to Romania. Here they are in the Blue Mosque in Istanbul during a long layover back to Doha. Chris is sporting his Movember mustache to raise money for charity. |
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| Margaret's first attempt at sandboarding. |
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| Grandma Doris giving the kids a drawing lesson. |
We signed on for another year here, and let go of Chris's leave of absence on the island. At some point, he will need to teach in Washington state again in order to retrieve his pension. It feels too risky to move back to the States without secure jobs lined up for both of us, so, for now, we will continue this little adventure, wading through the thorns and soaking up the roses.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Just Quit Already
I have quit so many things that I lost count a long time ago. Flute lessons and Girl Scouts, various sports, scrapbooks and journals, learning how to knit and how to sail, watching Dexter, and sewing projects big and small.
Last week, I experienced my first inkling of wanting to quit my job. It was the first time that I thought, with that ugly wince of regret, why on earth did I sign a contract for next year? Wouldn't everything be easier if I was still working at the library and Chris still teaching on the island? And, wait, aren't I living in a country seemingly surrounded by countries in the midst of, or on the brink of, chaos? Does all of this really matter - the stellar but stressful job, the travel, the can't-beat-it schedule of teaching? The truth is that we probably should have done this overseas gig in our twenties, then moved home, scored jobs and a house, had kids, adopted a dog, and built a normal life. We never planned this move, but somewhere inside of us was this desire to be out in the world, to be a part of something that seemed attainable only for other people. Whatever happens after next year, if we quit and move home, go to another international school, or stay in Doha, I know that our time overseas is worthwhile, possible even useful.
The "winners never quit" attitude never appealed to me. I stop reading books as soon as soon as I have that it's just not worth my time feeling. This is not to say that I choose not to persevere ever, just that I persevere with what seems right at the time. I forced myself to read Twilight even though the writing was awful, and I'm glad I did because it's something I refer to in class (conflicts in literature, word choice - every page says "Edward chuckled" - and foreshadowing). I persevered reading a book I would never normally choose to read because I knew it would be useful. I persevered during our first year of marriage when both Chris and I were earning master's degrees but not earning an income, knowing that in time our decision to further our educations would be useful (and one day, we hoped, earn us a decent salary seeing as how I was also pregnant during this time).
I think this blog might be useful too. I'm not sure how exactly, but it may come in handy someday. Not many people read it, not many people need it, but someday, for someone near or far, it might be useful.
So I promise not to quit.
Vietnam, our December destination, is somewhere I have longed to experience ever since I read a National Geographic article about Hanoi during my teens. Yes, the beaches are beautiful, and yes, the food is beyond delicious. The rice paddies really are as emerald as in the pictures and it really is a life-risking adventure crossing city streets. My favorite memories from the trip, however, are snippets of dialogue from Nolan and Greta. We visited the beautifully-housed modern art museum, and as she entered the second floor, Greta whispered, "I feel as light as a feather in here." Not a crumb of cliche in those words, she just felt light and happy and calm. It was a perfect life moment and, being an artist's daughter, I love that it was in a museum. In Vietnam. If you look at the pictures from our trip, I think you'll agree that Greta possesses an uncommon (for her) calmness.
of vacation, Nolan (after hesitating repeatedly) ran into the ocean, all smiles, and yelled, "I'm amazing!" Yes, little one, you are. He was so proud of himself, and he simply could not contain his jubilance. He still asks if we can return to that morsel-of-heaven cove.
Traveling to Vietnam with Chris meant exploring some historical sites (which I have grown to appreciate more and more). We went to the Cu Chi tunnels to see for ourselves the underground maze of dugout earth that protected the Vietnamese during the "American War" and during their battles with the French. Our guide was a sweet older lady who Chris posited had endured the reeducation camps common for the southern residents after the American War. She was chatting about the bombs dropped and the environmental damaged caused and the heartache of war, when Nolan, in all his big-blue-eyed innocence, gently grabbed her hand asking,
"Were we the enemy?"My heart sank. I held my breath. Our friends, Pete and Julie, looked at us with an anticipatory What can she possibly say to that? We hadn't prepared our kids for this part. Oops. Too busy packing and daydreaming and booking hotels. "We're friends now," she replied, hugging him. I exhaled.
I hope I never stop traveling with my kids. We started small, and we've come a long way. Our first adventure was taking Greta on a two week road trip to Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming when she was thirteen months. A few years later, determined to score a free airline ticket while Nolan was still under two years old, we packed up the kids and went to the Yucatan for beaches and ancient ruins (one of our favorite holiday combos). Then, after moving to Qatar, came India, Sri Lanka, Italy, Vietnam, and now we're off to Spain and Andorra. I love that our family has experienced these places together. It's fun to see the world with kids. It forces us to slow down, to alter our pace to a five-year-old's footsteps, to take ice cream breaks and visit toy shops if only for the air-conditioned interior.
Not that it's always easy. Like when we rented bicycles in Hoi An, determined to view Vietnam from two (rickety) wheels. We put a kid on the back of each bike, local style, and rode for about ten minutes before Nolan's foot slipped (darn Crocs) between the spokes, stopping Chris's bike on the side of a busy street. I screamed. Chris hopped off the bike. Nolan was eerily silent but dazed, and I was flush with guilt (why did we think we could do this?). An old Vietnamese woman ran up to us offering us a bottle of oil. A woman tending her kiosk pointed us to the direction of a hospital, so off we went. The hospital (no sign, we just had to guess) basically ignored us. Nolan wasn't bleeding, but his ankle wore the imprint of a bike chain and bluish bruises marked up all sides of his now-swollen foot. Back at the hotel, I took pictures of his foot just to remind myself to slow down, for goodness sakes.
Last week, I experienced my first inkling of wanting to quit my job. It was the first time that I thought, with that ugly wince of regret, why on earth did I sign a contract for next year? Wouldn't everything be easier if I was still working at the library and Chris still teaching on the island? And, wait, aren't I living in a country seemingly surrounded by countries in the midst of, or on the brink of, chaos? Does all of this really matter - the stellar but stressful job, the travel, the can't-beat-it schedule of teaching? The truth is that we probably should have done this overseas gig in our twenties, then moved home, scored jobs and a house, had kids, adopted a dog, and built a normal life. We never planned this move, but somewhere inside of us was this desire to be out in the world, to be a part of something that seemed attainable only for other people. Whatever happens after next year, if we quit and move home, go to another international school, or stay in Doha, I know that our time overseas is worthwhile, possible even useful.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Year Two
This year, our second year at the American School of Doha, began with less disarray (despite the delay of our luggage), fewer jet-lag inspired tears, and the same anticipatory energy that each new school year brings. We finally received all of our luggage twenty days after landing in Doha. Our final bag, Nolan's monkey suitcase, arrived damp after spending some quality time outdoors at Heathrow Airport in London. We managed our jet lag with slightly more dignity than last year and felt normal one week after arriving, just in time to report to school for meetings.
We love our jobs, but all year we anticipate the summer. Then all summer, we felt displaced and frazzled. This is not to say we were not blessed with lovely hosts or that we did not savor some sweet, peaceful moments. We were and we did. But it was also odd and uncomfortable and stressful (I cried, I admit) at times. We packed, unpacked, visited, drove, packed, unpacked, visited, and drove. And again and again and again. Nolan asked if we now lived not in Qatar but in our car. I felt like such a slut - I slept in sixteen different beds in seven weeks.
Oh, well. Just like we have improved the way we plan our trips and travel, we will improve the way we allocate our time and energy during the summer. Not only am I determined to be a better teacher this year during the school year, I am determined to be a better houseguest our next summer home.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
I realize that on my last post I ended with the line, "It's not an easy life, but it's a good one." When I reread my writing this morning, I noticed that I did not highlight any of Doha's uneasy qualities. The best I can do right now is a list, so here you are (in no particular order) - a list of unsavory details about Doha.
1. The driving. See previous blog posts.
2. The rubble and the litter and the dust (though many career international teachers say Doha is very clean compared to other places they have lived)
3. The lack of safe places to walk (this is due to reason one, not due to crime)
4. The "throw away" attitude and the obstacles to recycling (so easy on the island, we didn't even have to sort!)
5. Seeing movies at the theatre without the good kissing scenes
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| Our front gate |
6. The likelihood we will get into a car accident and all the red tape that will surely follow
7. The lack of a true cultural experience even though there people from all over the world living in Doha
8. The reliance on cheap labor (Indian, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan)
9. The shelves lined with "skin lightening" products for men, women, and kids
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| Doha skyline |
10. The difficulty in finding common items such as frozen blueberries and canned black beans, the right printer cartridge, a wood saw, tiki torch oil, decent tape. The frustration is often followed by uninhibited bouts of giddiness upon finding the said product.
There are more, of course, but it's the stuff for stories told with a bottle of wine . . . while wearing a tank top and short shorts after watching the unedited version of Sex and the City after a day of eating pork products and attending church and kissing the husband in public. Wink, wink.
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| Spiderman and Greta guarding the goal |
Sunday, April 18, 2010
No Longer a Newbie
I've been sleeping. And it's been good.
Since moving to Doha, there has not been one night that I have been plagued by sleeplessness, uncomfortably awake at three in the morning stressed out by the one enormous factor that caused us to leave the island: money. We are beyond grateful that the director of our school hired us and that we have been allowed to embark on this journey. The international life is a good one. We work, we play, we travel, we swim, we watch movies, and we sleep.
I have had plenty of sleepless nights, especially when the kids were itty bitty babas and I was a nursing mama. One dreadful morning I drove absentmindedly through the stoplight on Guard Street and Tucker Avenue due to sheer exhaustion. I pulled over as soon as I realized what I had done and cried because I could have caused serious injury to a neighbor, to myself, or to my kids in the backseat simply because I was blinded by lack of sleep. However, money, not my kids, has consistently been the culprit behind my many sleepless nights. I am grateful that part of my life is over (for now).
A friend (okay, three friends) told me they had been worrying about me since the last post. The last post is from February and highlighted some of my struggles. I did this not to alarm anyone or to complain, I did it to be honest. It would be mighty easy to sugarcoat the annoyances of living here and say everything is dandy, but I didn't move here for my life to be easy. We did it because we wanted to seize control of our family's future instead of being at the mercy of the budget-axing school district, the hyperactive housing market, and the relentless bills. Our island life was blissful and idyllic, certainly, but it was not always easy.
Although we didn't realize it would be, our life in Doha is, in many ways, quite easy. Our jobs provide daily challenges, of course, but our life outside of school is manageable and fairly stress-free. Our nanny, Alita, is an enormous factor in our manageable home life. I have not ironed, scrubbed, swept, or wiped anything since August. Call me spoiled, I simply don't care. I love having a nanny! I can enjoy my home without feeling that constant tug of the to-do list and the mountain of dishes. Though I admit I loved my little kitchen on Carter Avenue much more than my current kitchen in villa 7B, the absence of stress associated with the housework is something I do not miss. At all.
There are other times, too, when Doha seems polar opposite of Friday Harbor. My eyes have, sadly, grown accustomed to the ubiquitous peachy brown sandy ecru color that is Qatar. This is a huge contrast to my former visual palette of the blue Puget Sound, the Mount Baker's pristine white tip, the evergreens, and the brown fertile soil beneath it all. I fear I may experience color shock rather than culture shock when we come home for the summer. I fear I may take my newly-acquired aggressive driving habits home with me and cause an accident not from lack of sleep but from overly-assertive vehicle maneuvering. This is all aside from the fact that I live in a conservative Muslim country and not a progressive enclave of outdoorsy dads and marsupial moms. This is perhaps the most obvious contrast of all, but I'm not sure it is. I will keep thinking about that one.
In three weeks, we will be visiting Brian and Katelyn and baby Avery in Maine. In four weeks, I will give my dad the biggest hug in the world and surely cry when I see Shayla. In five weeks, we will be at American Dream Pizza in Corvallis, Oregon. In six weeks, we will be celebrating Fourth of July in Liberty Lake. In seven weeks, we will be watching the Mariners play (and beat) the Yankees. In nine weeks, we will be back on the island. I will be sitting with Betsy in her backyard listening to the kids play, digging my toes in the sand at Eagle Cove with Kerry, sampling Val's vegies, and sipping coffee with Adrienne at Cafe Demeter. In ten weeks, I will be at my sister's house savoring every morsel, every sunset, and every minute before we fly back to the Middle East. Back to the empty skyscrapers, the piles of rubble, the heat, the air conditioned everything, and the promise of a new school year. It's not an easy life, but it's a good one.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Liz Lemon Moments
I'm in a funk. I am a bit lonely and a lot tired. I am counting the days until we leave on that big plane, stopping in London and Boston before landing in our beloved home state of Washington. Last week, I told one of my classes that I was disappointed in their efforts. We hired a counselor to help Greta with her angry outbursts. Nolan's diet has been atrocious lately. I am battling the stinking ten pounds that I want to lose before spring break, I am struggling to teach my elective class about climate change (I am not a science teacher for goodness sakes), and I hate the color of my living room walls. They're the color of sand; as if I don't see enough of that. All I can say is (insert voice of Liz Lemon here), "Blurg."
I have heard that this time of year is the toughest for teachers. The big holidays are over. Week Without Walls has come and gone (and it would have been perfection if not for the colleague who took multiple - okay, daily - opportunities to insult me). Double blurg.
What am I going to do to perk up my sinking attitude? I run a little, but not enough to keep my arse from expanding into another zip code. I plan our vacations. I Skype. I daydream. I remember what it was like to work part time, to prepare Sunday suppers, to read novels from the library's new fiction shelves, and to walk to the post office. We are enjoying our time abroad, but I think I am having a bit of an identity crisis. Am I a lifer? Do I want to teach overseas for the next ten years and give my kids the tremendous gifts of travel and international education? Am I an island girl? What would it be like to return to the islands after being away? Is there anyone left to hang out with who will put up with my flaky memory, my ongoing mini-dramas, and my lazy attitude toward socializing? Maybe I belong in the Skagit Valley where my family roots are strong and the landscape is achingly familiar.
Blurg, blurg, blurg.
If you're still reading this, I suppose I should toss in some good news. I love that Greta's best friend here is from Pakistan. I love that my students are crazy mixes of Welsh/Iraqi, Japanese/Qatari, and Cuban/Egyptian. This gives me hope for the world. All our students at ASD are like little ambassadors for their own country (and in some cases their own country is Texas . . .) as well as the home countries of their peers. They go to school every single day with kids from places that are feared by many Americans.
Other good news includes that I just finished teaching the novel The Giver and I think I did a pretty darn good job. Expository writing and poetry are next. It's exciting to think about next year and about all the improvements I want to make. I really do want to be a good teacher; it's just so darn tiring! I have been watching Chris go through trials and triumphs of teaching for the past seven years. I have, I admit, thought many times there is no way I am going to put myself through that. Well, here I am, teaching and trying to survive, looking forward to spending my birthday in Sri Lanka, counting the days until we fly home, and daydreaming about all the things I will do when I get there. In the meantime, I will just keep swimming. And running. I will paint my living room walls and try to be a good parent. I will attend Zumba more and eat less. I will try to master the carbon cycle, to teach poetry, and to rekindle Nolan's love for broccoli. I will, I will, I will.
I have heard that this time of year is the toughest for teachers. The big holidays are over. Week Without Walls has come and gone (and it would have been perfection if not for the colleague who took multiple - okay, daily - opportunities to insult me). Double blurg.
What am I going to do to perk up my sinking attitude? I run a little, but not enough to keep my arse from expanding into another zip code. I plan our vacations. I Skype. I daydream. I remember what it was like to work part time, to prepare Sunday suppers, to read novels from the library's new fiction shelves, and to walk to the post office. We are enjoying our time abroad, but I think I am having a bit of an identity crisis. Am I a lifer? Do I want to teach overseas for the next ten years and give my kids the tremendous gifts of travel and international education? Am I an island girl? What would it be like to return to the islands after being away? Is there anyone left to hang out with who will put up with my flaky memory, my ongoing mini-dramas, and my lazy attitude toward socializing? Maybe I belong in the Skagit Valley where my family roots are strong and the landscape is achingly familiar.
Blurg, blurg, blurg.
If you're still reading this, I suppose I should toss in some good news. I love that Greta's best friend here is from Pakistan. I love that my students are crazy mixes of Welsh/Iraqi, Japanese/Qatari, and Cuban/Egyptian. This gives me hope for the world. All our students at ASD are like little ambassadors for their own country (and in some cases their own country is Texas . . .) as well as the home countries of their peers. They go to school every single day with kids from places that are feared by many Americans.
Other good news includes that I just finished teaching the novel The Giver and I think I did a pretty darn good job. Expository writing and poetry are next. It's exciting to think about next year and about all the improvements I want to make. I really do want to be a good teacher; it's just so darn tiring! I have been watching Chris go through trials and triumphs of teaching for the past seven years. I have, I admit, thought many times there is no way I am going to put myself through that. Well, here I am, teaching and trying to survive, looking forward to spending my birthday in Sri Lanka, counting the days until we fly home, and daydreaming about all the things I will do when I get there. In the meantime, I will just keep swimming. And running. I will paint my living room walls and try to be a good parent. I will attend Zumba more and eat less. I will try to master the carbon cycle, to teach poetry, and to rekindle Nolan's love for broccoli. I will, I will, I will.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Let's Do This Alphabetically . . . India then Italy
We didn't really plan on going to India. Chris and I were booking tickets from Doha to Izmir, Turkey so we could roadtrip along the southern coast - and be in Turkey for Thanksgiving - when the Qatar Airways website reported the flight was no longer available. We navigated back to the homepage of QA (our favorite airline, but not our favorite website . . . more on that later) to discover they had a special on their new destination: Goa, India. Goa, known also as "India-lite" and a Portuguese colony until the 1960s, is only three hours away from the sandbox (Doha), boasts beaches, cheap food, warm weather, and market shopping. Tickets booked.
I'll spare the part when we arrived at the airport hours early only to be told the flight was booked. I'll leave out the details of our hair-raising, clutch-the-kids-for-dear-life taxi ride from the Goa airport to our hotel at four 0'clock in the morning on a seriously curvy road with a driver who looked no older than my students. I might even leave out the Panjim market story, but it's just too good.
What I will include are the extrinsic juxtapositions that seem to define India, the ones that trigger a simultaneous adoration for and disdain of a place. While our hotel, The Lemon Tree, provided a tranquil, lush setting complete with a pool, a few hammocks, and a swim up bar, a few meters beyond the lobby thrusted us into a mini-whirlwind of traffic (tuk-tuks and trucks), hawkers, colorful shops, and strolling bovine. It was an overwhelming yet fascinating assault on my senses. I had to multi-task on a new level: maintain hand-holding with kids, avoid cow poo on dirt sidewalk, participate in conversation with husband, sniff out a supper spot, and snap photos when possible. Leaving the hotel was both a welcome challenge and a chore.
The beach near the hotel posed as another juxtaposition. It was lovely spot of land facing west, perfect for watching sunsets and evening strolls. It would have been even lovlier minus the plump, pink Brits who overtook the beach each afternoon, sans the defunct cargo ship perched in the shallow waters, and without the myriad tankers in the distance not obstructing the view so much as just tainting it with their presence. Perhaps I have been spoiled by all the beautiful beaches that dot my memory: Bondi Beach in Australia, Akumal in Mexico, Salema in Portugal, and the dozens of beachs in Oregon, Hawaii, and Washington that act as my (high) standards for beach aesthetics.
Since I am operating on a mere ninety minutes of sleep, I will fast forward to the market. Another harrowing taxi ride (this time in the daylight, this time no seatbelts) took us to the Panjim market. I knew I wanted to buy some goods for the house and some gifts for folks at home, and I thought we could roam around for a couple of hours and absorb all that interesting India-ness. We were back in the taxi after ten minutes. Here's Chris with the story:
The Panjim market was what I had always pictured India to be: a kalidescopic sensory experience. As we exited the taxi the drum seller was the first to pounce upon us. Laden with at least 30 drums he pushed us to buy from him, "You will not get a better deal anywhere else." We pushed past him with a feeble promise to look when we returned and entered a sea of bodies, brightly clad, all inviting us to visit their stall, to buy from them. A glance in their direction seemed to be a promise to come in and buy. The best strategy was to walk past holding up hand to wave them off and dive down a side "street." Not all vendors accepted this, especially the one who decided to grab me by the earlobe and tug me (unsuccessfully) into his stall. In the end the money went quickly. A couple of shirts, an anklet for Greta, some woven work and the money was gone. I didn't bring too much for fear of pickpockets in the mass of humanity. The market was truly overstimulating and the children found the heat and press of flesh to be especially oppressive. This was compounded by the people who kept reaching out and touching Nolan and Greta's heads. Our money spent, we worked our way back to the taxi. While waiting for the cabbie to return the drum seller spotted us.
"Now you buy a drum," he said. "600 rupees."
"Sorry, we spent our money. We can't buy a drum."
"For you,my first customers, very lucky, I give a good price. 550."
"Thank you, but we only have 50 rupees."
"No, you have money," he pressed angrily. "500."
The exchange continued this way as I looked deperately for our taxi driver. The price lowered as far as 250 rupees, but I honestly didn't have the money. In fact, I was counting on our taxi driver to let me run over to an ATM when we returned to the hotel. Then the final straw. When I said I din't have any money, the drum monger replied, "Maybe your wife will have sex for you?"
At that point my hands balled into fists. "You can go away, now!" I said through clenched teeth, trying not to loose my cool. The drum man backed away fear in his eyes, realizing that he had crossed the line.
The taxi driver appeared shortly thereafter and we left the insanity of decorated cows, billowing insense, and overzealous hawkers for the relative tranquility of the taxi.
It's me again. Some of you know that I have a tendency to mix up facts (you know, like the opening times of the Orsay Museum during the one trip to Paris with my parents) that typically have minor, harmless ramifications (sorry again Mom and Dad). During the retelling of our India experiences in the weeks following our trip, I reported the story how I interpreted it (okay, I also have bad hearing, so I told it how I thought I heard it). I thought the drum guy offered his wife to Chris if we would just purchase the darn drum. I had no idea the guy was attempting to negotiate me into the deal!
This was all before I became debilitated by tonsillitus on the last day of our trip. I kicked out Chris and the kids so I could be sick in solitude. Our kids' music teacher, however, was at the same resort. She saw me at my worst: disgusting breath from infected tonsils and recent pukage, clothes stuck to my aching body from the fever-induced sweatiness, and an attitude from hell. Not many people have seen me in such an awful state - not many who have lived to tell about it anyway - and she could not have been kinder. Laurie, whom my kids love as much as Maggie the Music Teacher, took my ickiness in stride and even invited us to her New Year's bash which we missed due to an impossibly long spin cycle and the whimsey of Qatar Airways. Stay tuned.
I'll spare the part when we arrived at the airport hours early only to be told the flight was booked. I'll leave out the details of our hair-raising, clutch-the-kids-for-dear-life taxi ride from the Goa airport to our hotel at four 0'clock in the morning on a seriously curvy road with a driver who looked no older than my students. I might even leave out the Panjim market story, but it's just too good.
What I will include are the extrinsic juxtapositions that seem to define India, the ones that trigger a simultaneous adoration for and disdain of a place. While our hotel, The Lemon Tree, provided a tranquil, lush setting complete with a pool, a few hammocks, and a swim up bar, a few meters beyond the lobby thrusted us into a mini-whirlwind of traffic (tuk-tuks and trucks), hawkers, colorful shops, and strolling bovine. It was an overwhelming yet fascinating assault on my senses. I had to multi-task on a new level: maintain hand-holding with kids, avoid cow poo on dirt sidewalk, participate in conversation with husband, sniff out a supper spot, and snap photos when possible. Leaving the hotel was both a welcome challenge and a chore.
The beach near the hotel posed as another juxtaposition. It was lovely spot of land facing west, perfect for watching sunsets and evening strolls. It would have been even lovlier minus the plump, pink Brits who overtook the beach each afternoon, sans the defunct cargo ship perched in the shallow waters, and without the myriad tankers in the distance not obstructing the view so much as just tainting it with their presence. Perhaps I have been spoiled by all the beautiful beaches that dot my memory: Bondi Beach in Australia, Akumal in Mexico, Salema in Portugal, and the dozens of beachs in Oregon, Hawaii, and Washington that act as my (high) standards for beach aesthetics.
Since I am operating on a mere ninety minutes of sleep, I will fast forward to the market. Another harrowing taxi ride (this time in the daylight, this time no seatbelts) took us to the Panjim market. I knew I wanted to buy some goods for the house and some gifts for folks at home, and I thought we could roam around for a couple of hours and absorb all that interesting India-ness. We were back in the taxi after ten minutes. Here's Chris with the story:
The Panjim market was what I had always pictured India to be: a kalidescopic sensory experience. As we exited the taxi the drum seller was the first to pounce upon us. Laden with at least 30 drums he pushed us to buy from him, "You will not get a better deal anywhere else." We pushed past him with a feeble promise to look when we returned and entered a sea of bodies, brightly clad, all inviting us to visit their stall, to buy from them. A glance in their direction seemed to be a promise to come in and buy. The best strategy was to walk past holding up hand to wave them off and dive down a side "street." Not all vendors accepted this, especially the one who decided to grab me by the earlobe and tug me (unsuccessfully) into his stall. In the end the money went quickly. A couple of shirts, an anklet for Greta, some woven work and the money was gone. I didn't bring too much for fear of pickpockets in the mass of humanity. The market was truly overstimulating and the children found the heat and press of flesh to be especially oppressive. This was compounded by the people who kept reaching out and touching Nolan and Greta's heads. Our money spent, we worked our way back to the taxi. While waiting for the cabbie to return the drum seller spotted us.
"Now you buy a drum," he said. "600 rupees."
"Sorry, we spent our money. We can't buy a drum."
"For you,my first customers, very lucky, I give a good price. 550."
"Thank you, but we only have 50 rupees."
"No, you have money," he pressed angrily. "500."
The exchange continued this way as I looked deperately for our taxi driver. The price lowered as far as 250 rupees, but I honestly didn't have the money. In fact, I was counting on our taxi driver to let me run over to an ATM when we returned to the hotel. Then the final straw. When I said I din't have any money, the drum monger replied, "Maybe your wife will have sex for you?"
At that point my hands balled into fists. "You can go away, now!" I said through clenched teeth, trying not to loose my cool. The drum man backed away fear in his eyes, realizing that he had crossed the line.
The taxi driver appeared shortly thereafter and we left the insanity of decorated cows, billowing insense, and overzealous hawkers for the relative tranquility of the taxi.
It's me again. Some of you know that I have a tendency to mix up facts (you know, like the opening times of the Orsay Museum during the one trip to Paris with my parents) that typically have minor, harmless ramifications (sorry again Mom and Dad). During the retelling of our India experiences in the weeks following our trip, I reported the story how I interpreted it (okay, I also have bad hearing, so I told it how I thought I heard it). I thought the drum guy offered his wife to Chris if we would just purchase the darn drum. I had no idea the guy was attempting to negotiate me into the deal!
This was all before I became debilitated by tonsillitus on the last day of our trip. I kicked out Chris and the kids so I could be sick in solitude. Our kids' music teacher, however, was at the same resort. She saw me at my worst: disgusting breath from infected tonsils and recent pukage, clothes stuck to my aching body from the fever-induced sweatiness, and an attitude from hell. Not many people have seen me in such an awful state - not many who have lived to tell about it anyway - and she could not have been kinder. Laurie, whom my kids love as much as Maggie the Music Teacher, took my ickiness in stride and even invited us to her New Year's bash which we missed due to an impossibly long spin cycle and the whimsey of Qatar Airways. Stay tuned.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Out of my Box and into the World
I am not sure what is happening. I like the heat and I really do not mind the air conditioning. I bought a blue bikini and wear it in public. I splurged on Fendi sunglasses then took my kids to Burger King for dinner. These are not my normal habits.
A few weeks ago I jumped (fully clothed, not in the blue bikini) into a swimming pool because I thought I saw our friend's son sinking (there is still a bit of argument about whether or not he was actually in trouble). Yesterday I brought home a possibly blind dumpster kitten. I make no secret of the fact that I normally feel about animals the way that people without kids feel about other people's kids - nice to play with if they're well behaved, but feeling it's a privilege to walk away without any true responsibility. . . so bringing home a kitten was a bit out of my comfort zone. I have to drive somewhat maniacally to survive a trip to the market (hopping the curb, passing on the right, temporarily making a third lane in traffic just so I can pull a u-turn at the right spot). And most of you know that I went to see Air Supply. I am not sure what is happening to me. I have never wanted to go to India, but off I go in three weeks. Oh, and I haven't baked anything, not even a blueberry muffin, since I arrived in Doha.
I suppose some things do not change. I am still the unassuming girl who doesn't say much in staff meetings and is willing to do what I am told. I have opinions and qualms, but no desire to ruffle the status quo's stable boat (or whatever you say, I am not versed in easyspeak). Even when the principal announced that the school simply does not hire new teachers because the high expectations placed on the staff would overwhelm anyone new to the profession, I rebelliously thought, I am here and I am doing okay and I haven't cried yet and I might just surprise you with my mad skills.
I am the only woman teacher hired this year for the middle school. I am floating in a sea of forty-something men. It feels like I have inherited several big brothers who call me "Em" or "Wolf" and I learn a little from them every day.
I know I will return home a different person (not to worry, I will still take an hour to get the jokes and will still shout "bunco" like a little girl) . I know our kids will change because of our time overseas. I also know that I am working harder than I have ever worked before, that Chris and I are doing this not just to check one more item off our life list, and that this crazy desert city is exactly where we should be.
A few weeks ago I jumped (fully clothed, not in the blue bikini) into a swimming pool because I thought I saw our friend's son sinking (there is still a bit of argument about whether or not he was actually in trouble). Yesterday I brought home a possibly blind dumpster kitten. I make no secret of the fact that I normally feel about animals the way that people without kids feel about other people's kids - nice to play with if they're well behaved, but feeling it's a privilege to walk away without any true responsibility. . . so bringing home a kitten was a bit out of my comfort zone. I have to drive somewhat maniacally to survive a trip to the market (hopping the curb, passing on the right, temporarily making a third lane in traffic just so I can pull a u-turn at the right spot). And most of you know that I went to see Air Supply. I am not sure what is happening to me. I have never wanted to go to India, but off I go in three weeks. Oh, and I haven't baked anything, not even a blueberry muffin, since I arrived in Doha.
I suppose some things do not change. I am still the unassuming girl who doesn't say much in staff meetings and is willing to do what I am told. I have opinions and qualms, but no desire to ruffle the status quo's stable boat (or whatever you say, I am not versed in easyspeak). Even when the principal announced that the school simply does not hire new teachers because the high expectations placed on the staff would overwhelm anyone new to the profession, I rebelliously thought, I am here and I am doing okay and I haven't cried yet and I might just surprise you with my mad skills.
I am the only woman teacher hired this year for the middle school. I am floating in a sea of forty-something men. It feels like I have inherited several big brothers who call me "Em" or "Wolf" and I learn a little from them every day.
I know I will return home a different person (not to worry, I will still take an hour to get the jokes and will still shout "bunco" like a little girl) . I know our kids will change because of our time overseas. I also know that I am working harder than I have ever worked before, that Chris and I are doing this not just to check one more item off our life list, and that this crazy desert city is exactly where we should be.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Just thought I would post the link to my class website. All ASD teachers have to be ready and able to conduct their classes online should the school close due to H1N1.
http://sites.google.com/a/asd.edu.qa/asd-seventh-grade-language-arts-with-mrs-wolf/
I am still working on it, but take a look if you want. Suggestions welcome.
http://sites.google.com/a/asd.edu.qa/asd-seventh-grade-language-arts-with-mrs-wolf/
I am still working on it, but take a look if you want. Suggestions welcome.
Details
I don't know how I am going to live without my beloved chard pasta. It's my comfort food. Swiss chard sauteed in olive oil with garlic, salt, and red pepper flakes, served with pasta then topped with parmesan. I also miss my Alba shampoo, my cookbooks, and my framed photos of family and friends.
These are minor details, I suppose, and I have no excuse for not snuggling them (minus the chard) next to my new Danskos and Apples to Apples in my suitcase. Somehow, Chris and I thought that our life overseas would automagically (yes, automagically . . . that term is courtesy of Floyd) invite minimalism, as if we just would not want or need all the "extras" most folks find necessary. Maybe we thought our lives would be full simply because we live abroad. As if living overseas is itself a form of entertainment.
People who know us know we lived without cable for the past twelve years, that we choose to spend our dollars on travel not trinkets, and that we pride ourselves on being a one-car family. We debated over whether or not we should purchase a blender and a microwave for our home in Doha, and chose frugality over fabulousness when we bought carpets and dishes. I am not sure when the shift happened (my guess is around payday) but, my friends, the times are a-changing. The blender and microwave are sitting pretty in the kitchen, the new flatscreen TV (outfitted with cable) is Chris's favorite item in the house, and we just spent two nights at the Doha Intercontinental Hotel. Not exactly a minimalist's destination.
We now own two cars. While our beloved Odyssey ("Homer") lives the quiet life in LaConner, our Mitsubishi (hereafter referred to as Mitsi) keeps us safe on the somewhat manical (mostly unnamed) streets of Doha. Last week, Mitsi served her true purpose when she locked into 4WD and took us to the southwestern border of Qatar to the inland sea. She powered up sanddunes and hurdled sandy bumps causing the kids to screech in delight. Okay, okay, that was me screeching with delight. It's the most thrilling, fun adventure our family has shared in a while. Our caravan was 19 cars strong. We cheered each other on as we took turns venturing up the dunes, assisting one another when the wheels just wouldn't turn, and celebrated by swimming in the salty waters claiming the border between Qatar and the UAE. Mitsi, though covered inside and out with sand, proved herself a workhorse and made us proud.
"We should get the car detailed," I mentioned to Chris the morning after the dune trip. I had made this same request repeatedly in the States.
"What do you want for your birthday, Em?"
"Maybe get the car detailed?"
"Oh."
Now Homer, our trusty vehicle since Greta turned one, has never had a detail job. That's six years of transporting cracker-crunching toddlers and hauling piles of Costco goods without a decent interior scrub and vacuum. Not that I didn't request one for him. On numerous occasions.
Along comes Mitsi. Twelve hours after her first real excursion she's in the "jackwash" line at the local petrol station. She is jacked up, sprayed, and scrubbed, then lowered and vacuumed. The station guys lovingly bathe her and dutifully detail her, then fill her with gasoline. It's a whopping twenty-five dollars. Fifteen for the jackwash and detail, then ten for a full tank of gas. Poor Homer. It's no wonder why he hasn't experienced this luxury treatment. It would cost forty dollars to fill up his tank and one hundred (?) for a good detailing.
So while Homer waits patiently for us to return, Mitsi takes us to school (a three minute drive), to the mall (complete with ice rink), to the beaches (and the warm, warm water), to potluck dinners and birthday parties (courtesy of our insta-family here in Doha), and to the numerous grocery stores where I shall continue to search devotedly for chard.
These are minor details, I suppose, and I have no excuse for not snuggling them (minus the chard) next to my new Danskos and Apples to Apples in my suitcase. Somehow, Chris and I thought that our life overseas would automagically (yes, automagically . . . that term is courtesy of Floyd) invite minimalism, as if we just would not want or need all the "extras" most folks find necessary. Maybe we thought our lives would be full simply because we live abroad. As if living overseas is itself a form of entertainment.
People who know us know we lived without cable for the past twelve years, that we choose to spend our dollars on travel not trinkets, and that we pride ourselves on being a one-car family. We debated over whether or not we should purchase a blender and a microwave for our home in Doha, and chose frugality over fabulousness when we bought carpets and dishes. I am not sure when the shift happened (my guess is around payday) but, my friends, the times are a-changing. The blender and microwave are sitting pretty in the kitchen, the new flatscreen TV (outfitted with cable) is Chris's favorite item in the house, and we just spent two nights at the Doha Intercontinental Hotel. Not exactly a minimalist's destination.
We now own two cars. While our beloved Odyssey ("Homer") lives the quiet life in LaConner, our Mitsubishi (hereafter referred to as Mitsi) keeps us safe on the somewhat manical (mostly unnamed) streets of Doha. Last week, Mitsi served her true purpose when she locked into 4WD and took us to the southwestern border of Qatar to the inland sea. She powered up sanddunes and hurdled sandy bumps causing the kids to screech in delight. Okay, okay, that was me screeching with delight. It's the most thrilling, fun adventure our family has shared in a while. Our caravan was 19 cars strong. We cheered each other on as we took turns venturing up the dunes, assisting one another when the wheels just wouldn't turn, and celebrated by swimming in the salty waters claiming the border between Qatar and the UAE. Mitsi, though covered inside and out with sand, proved herself a workhorse and made us proud.
"We should get the car detailed," I mentioned to Chris the morning after the dune trip. I had made this same request repeatedly in the States.
"What do you want for your birthday, Em?"
"Maybe get the car detailed?"
"Oh."
Now Homer, our trusty vehicle since Greta turned one, has never had a detail job. That's six years of transporting cracker-crunching toddlers and hauling piles of Costco goods without a decent interior scrub and vacuum. Not that I didn't request one for him. On numerous occasions.
Along comes Mitsi. Twelve hours after her first real excursion she's in the "jackwash" line at the local petrol station. She is jacked up, sprayed, and scrubbed, then lowered and vacuumed. The station guys lovingly bathe her and dutifully detail her, then fill her with gasoline. It's a whopping twenty-five dollars. Fifteen for the jackwash and detail, then ten for a full tank of gas. Poor Homer. It's no wonder why he hasn't experienced this luxury treatment. It would cost forty dollars to fill up his tank and one hundred (?) for a good detailing.
So while Homer waits patiently for us to return, Mitsi takes us to school (a three minute drive), to the mall (complete with ice rink), to the beaches (and the warm, warm water), to potluck dinners and birthday parties (courtesy of our insta-family here in Doha), and to the numerous grocery stores where I shall continue to search devotedly for chard.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Same Same Only Different
When Chris returned from Thailand a few years ago, he told me about the phrase, "Same, same, only different." It's what the Thai say to explain something that is, well, the same - only different. That's a bit how I am feeling about Doha right now. It possesses much of the same characteristics of the West, only different. Sort of.
We drive on the same side of the road here, except the roads are punctuated with a plethora of roundabouts, and u-turns are common. The driving is aggressive and fast, and there is a zero tolerance law for drinking and driving (meaning an automatic fine and definite jail time). Only people in the front seat have to wear seatbelts, there are many SUV's, and the locals get annoyed with the non-Qataris. So it's the same, only different.
The school, The American School of Doha, offers an "enriched American curriculum" to its students and has many of the same sports as any American school. These sport teams may travel to Cairo or Kuwait or Bahrain for tournaments, but they are still kids dressed in handsome uniforms playing their best game. It also has, however, three swimming pools, a gym the size of Xtreme Fitness, small class sizes (I have one class of 20 and three classes of 16), fabulous technology resources, two libraries, art programs for all students, and one counselor for every two grades. It is one of the top international schools on the planet and my kids get to go there!!! Sorry, I just had to throw that in . . .
Doha has a Dairy Queen. And a Chili's. And KFC, H&M, Prada, Haagen-Dazs, McDonald's, and Starbucks. Same, same. Very different from the island.
One thing that is truly different about our life here so far is having a nanny. She lives with us five days every week (Sunday-Thursday) then goes home to her husband on the weekends (Friday and Saturday). She has already done more ironing in two days than I have done in my entire life, cleans the house, and does the laundry. She has already proved to be resourceful and a bargain shoppper. We went shopping for provisions and she let me know which soap, rice, and brooms were the best deal. Food shopping, by the way, is fun. I love seeing all the different food items from different countries and not knowing exactly what every item is. I loved seeing Eden Organic Sauerkraut on the shelf next to a jar of an unkown pickled vegetable. There is a large Indian grocery store I want to explore called the Lulu Hypermarket. It looks enormous from the road and its name alone is enticing. Tomorrow we are going to the Museum of Islamic Art and the old souk.
I have to address the issue of jet lag before I wrap up this post. It has been, by far, the most difficult obstacle since arriving (more than seeing the local women in their abayas, more than the heat). For the first week I felt like I had a newborn baby in the house. I was awake at 3 AM, craving a nap by 9, struggling to keep my eyes open at 6 PM, and forcing myself to stay awake until 10 because someone (Nolan) needed to eat. The exhaustion was exacerbated by the tiny but irritating knot of queasiness I carried in my stomach for the first six days. Am I sick? Did I contract some awful illness on the flight? Am I pregnant? No, no, no, I realized, I am simply stressed and nervous. What could I possibly be stressed and nervous about? Uprooting my family to move to Qatar? Knowing that my first year teaching is at the top school in the Middle East and wanting desperately to do well? Oh yeah, that. And knowing I am so very far away from everyone and everything my family has known. And feeling so very tired.
Now that it is the weekend and we have kicked jet lag's sorry biscuits, we are going to check out the beach (same), hit the playground (same), then order in some Turkish food (different) while we set up Skype - just another Friday in Doha.
We drive on the same side of the road here, except the roads are punctuated with a plethora of roundabouts, and u-turns are common. The driving is aggressive and fast, and there is a zero tolerance law for drinking and driving (meaning an automatic fine and definite jail time). Only people in the front seat have to wear seatbelts, there are many SUV's, and the locals get annoyed with the non-Qataris. So it's the same, only different.
The school, The American School of Doha, offers an "enriched American curriculum" to its students and has many of the same sports as any American school. These sport teams may travel to Cairo or Kuwait or Bahrain for tournaments, but they are still kids dressed in handsome uniforms playing their best game. It also has, however, three swimming pools, a gym the size of Xtreme Fitness, small class sizes (I have one class of 20 and three classes of 16), fabulous technology resources, two libraries, art programs for all students, and one counselor for every two grades. It is one of the top international schools on the planet and my kids get to go there!!! Sorry, I just had to throw that in . . .
Doha has a Dairy Queen. And a Chili's. And KFC, H&M, Prada, Haagen-Dazs, McDonald's, and Starbucks. Same, same. Very different from the island.
One thing that is truly different about our life here so far is having a nanny. She lives with us five days every week (Sunday-Thursday) then goes home to her husband on the weekends (Friday and Saturday). She has already done more ironing in two days than I have done in my entire life, cleans the house, and does the laundry. She has already proved to be resourceful and a bargain shoppper. We went shopping for provisions and she let me know which soap, rice, and brooms were the best deal. Food shopping, by the way, is fun. I love seeing all the different food items from different countries and not knowing exactly what every item is. I loved seeing Eden Organic Sauerkraut on the shelf next to a jar of an unkown pickled vegetable. There is a large Indian grocery store I want to explore called the Lulu Hypermarket. It looks enormous from the road and its name alone is enticing. Tomorrow we are going to the Museum of Islamic Art and the old souk.
I have to address the issue of jet lag before I wrap up this post. It has been, by far, the most difficult obstacle since arriving (more than seeing the local women in their abayas, more than the heat). For the first week I felt like I had a newborn baby in the house. I was awake at 3 AM, craving a nap by 9, struggling to keep my eyes open at 6 PM, and forcing myself to stay awake until 10 because someone (Nolan) needed to eat. The exhaustion was exacerbated by the tiny but irritating knot of queasiness I carried in my stomach for the first six days. Am I sick? Did I contract some awful illness on the flight? Am I pregnant? No, no, no, I realized, I am simply stressed and nervous. What could I possibly be stressed and nervous about? Uprooting my family to move to Qatar? Knowing that my first year teaching is at the top school in the Middle East and wanting desperately to do well? Oh yeah, that. And knowing I am so very far away from everyone and everything my family has known. And feeling so very tired.
Now that it is the weekend and we have kicked jet lag's sorry biscuits, we are going to check out the beach (same), hit the playground (same), then order in some Turkish food (different) while we set up Skype - just another Friday in Doha.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Bon Voyage
Last night we drove out to the west side of the island for a little family excursion (a.k.a. we really needed to get out of the house after a day of packing). We glued ourselves to a rocky perch and watched the sun settle behind the mountains and saw the whales swim by. This island, our (mostly) idyllic home for the past six years, is so incredible. It's not simply the naturally beautiful surroundings that we love, it's all the truly amazing people who choose to call the island their home. Sitting quietly with my family and absorbing the view, I wondered, "When exactly did the island became home?"
Was it when I started playing Bunco once every month with eleven hilarious women, rolling dice and chatting nonstop and laughing like only twelve ladies can? Thank you Deb Vermiere for asking me to be a part of this raucous, inspiring group of women. Or was it when I started running several mornings each week with Kerry, Adrienne, and Shannon? We tested our strength, our endurance, and our friendships. Perhaps the island became home when I had hyperemesis gravidarum (translation: the worst morning sickness possible) while pregnant with our son? Word traveled quickly (as it usually does here) that I was too ill to assume anything but the couch potato position, and soon Kathy Babbitt, Val Curtis, Lovell Pratt, Cheryl Opalski, and Amy Harold (others too, though my memory is a little fuzzy concerning that time period) knocked on the door with delicious dinners in hand for Chris and Greta. I think, too, it could have been when I started volunteering at the library just two months after we moved here. I coveted my Thursday afternoon shift that I shared with Beth Hudson as time away from being a mom and time devoted to the library, a place I grew to love. Of course, the island becoming home is a summation of all these examples . . . and many, many, many more.
I think I have grown up a lot since moving here. I have learned to navigate life with two kids (more challenging and more joyous than I could have predicted), to run 13.1 miles and cross the finish line with a smile, and to be courageous enough to embark on this adventure. It's difficult to leave such a lovely paradise. The consolation is knowing that this place, this island with its tremendous people, gave me the confidence to simply go for it.
Was it when I started playing Bunco once every month with eleven hilarious women, rolling dice and chatting nonstop and laughing like only twelve ladies can? Thank you Deb Vermiere for asking me to be a part of this raucous, inspiring group of women. Or was it when I started running several mornings each week with Kerry, Adrienne, and Shannon? We tested our strength, our endurance, and our friendships. Perhaps the island became home when I had hyperemesis gravidarum (translation: the worst morning sickness possible) while pregnant with our son? Word traveled quickly (as it usually does here) that I was too ill to assume anything but the couch potato position, and soon Kathy Babbitt, Val Curtis, Lovell Pratt, Cheryl Opalski, and Amy Harold (others too, though my memory is a little fuzzy concerning that time period) knocked on the door with delicious dinners in hand for Chris and Greta. I think, too, it could have been when I started volunteering at the library just two months after we moved here. I coveted my Thursday afternoon shift that I shared with Beth Hudson as time away from being a mom and time devoted to the library, a place I grew to love. Of course, the island becoming home is a summation of all these examples . . . and many, many, many more.
I think I have grown up a lot since moving here. I have learned to navigate life with two kids (more challenging and more joyous than I could have predicted), to run 13.1 miles and cross the finish line with a smile, and to be courageous enough to embark on this adventure. It's difficult to leave such a lovely paradise. The consolation is knowing that this place, this island with its tremendous people, gave me the confidence to simply go for it.
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